


Anniversary

by VesperNexus



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anniversary, Canonical Character Death, Established Relationship, Fluff, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:16:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this moment, Foggy is not holding Daredevil. He is not holding Murdock, the suave, brilliant and confident attorney who can bring a jury to its knees. In this moment, Foggy is holding his best friend and his lover, he is holding together the shattering pieces of Matt like ageing glue wearing at the edges, with hands scrambling to grasp all the parts with sharp edges that can cut, yet delicate enough to shatter irreversibly should he let go. He holds Matt together like one would spider-cracks on a mirror. </p><p>It’s the anniversary of Battlin’ Jack Murdock’s death. Only this time, Matt isn’t alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> So I recently watched and finished Daredevil. Oh My.  
> Wonderful show, absolutely brilliant. I had to write something. Forgive the angst.

**Anniversary**

The wind howls angrily around Foggy, whispers of the harsh coldness curling around his frame and sneaking through the threads of his thick jacket, caressing his skin. His hair hangs in waves around his cheeks, reddened from the chill, strands of blond flying across his vision. It tickles his neck.

It’s getting colder, and his boots are beginning to sink into the welcoming folds of the moist mud beneath them, leaving grooves he feels will never be undone. His fingers are gloved, a thick layer of dark wool spread across his palms and the back of his hands and to the tips of his nails, containing a warmth which does not spread to the tightness of his chest.

His scarf is beginning to feel heavy around his neck, and the fabric of his clothes itchy against his back, but he does not move. The heels of his boots remain tucked into the ground and his gaze motionless from the equally still figure before him, back turned and framed in a long coat which hugged a lean shoulders and a narrow waist.

The sharp, unfitting vividness of flowers left carefully on carved gravestones is ugly and unmatched in this weather, a picture painted with so many shades of wrong in the wilted grass and greying sky. He doesn’t comment on the daffodils, the tulips, though, tries not to think about how Matt has only left a single dim rose. It’s nothing spectacular, colour dull and utterly fitting in the context, curling in on itself as if in protection from the bitter wind. He can almost make out the thorns from here, sharp edges a dark, ordinary green.

He simply watches with a heavy gaze as Matt leans more heavily on his cane so it digs into the soil by the rose, edge breaking the ground and supporting all the weight he is unable to carry himself. Foggy isn’t imagining the trembling, the rough edges, like his lover is fraying at the seams.

The marble grave planted in the ground shines a brilliant grey against the light of the sky, throwing shadows around it like fingers reaching for the intended. There are words carefully engraved in the centre, slightly faded but persistent as if refusing to leave, a memory which will not be forgotten. A small, unspectacular font plastered on a small ordinary marker which symbolises anything but.

 _Jack Murdock_ , is all they read. _Father, Hero, Fighter,_ is what they should.

Foggy takes a moment before he shifts the few steps towards Matt, soil latching onto his heels like greedy hands sifting through treasure, latching on and refusing to let go. His legs feel tired, as if weighed done with lead and metal and the wind, but his friend’s still and defeated figure makes his heart heavier.

He stands beside Matt, gaze sighting eyes darkened and unseeing, framed with the bruise-like circle of exhaustion and guilt. His dark hair curls around his pale features and accentuates them like the snow which is not there, an ash which spreads to his parted lips and the hollow of his neck.

Foggy moves on instinct, movements sure and certain yet slow and measured. He stands shoulder to shoulder with his best friend, his partner, his lover, and curls one arm around his narrow waist.

The other man shows no resistance, practically melting into Foggy’s warm hold, the touch of support he craves. Foggy notices his white knuckled grip on the cane, fingers bare in the harsh wind and decorated in stark veins with blunt nails purple at the edges. He notices the cold Matt does not, and pulls him against his chest, arm secured around his back to land comfortably around his hip. Something he’s done before, so many times before. Something that comes so naturally, something that means so much more than it should.

It takes Matt a moment to notice the sudden warmth, but when he does, it’s as if his strings have been cut. He leans into Foggy and his head bends perfectly against the curve of Foggy’s neck to rest on his shoulder, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally reunited. Like he can finally see the bigger picture. One of his hands moves to his lover’s back, Foggy’s jacket suddenly pressed in the tight grasp of long, lean fingers which curve into the fabric as if they are the only thing keeping him up. Foggy thinks they might be.

It takes a moment for him to find his voice, taking the seconds to relish the brilliant fit of Matt against him, hip to hip.

“He was a great man.” It’s soft and general and safe, and Foggy almost doesn’t feel like his words are crushing Matt’s heart with a terrible weight. “He’d be proud of you, you know?”

He turns his gaze to his partner, Matt’s almost unseeing gaze planted firmly on the marbling, unyielding. But he nods, a shift of skin against the material of Foggy’s jacket.

Foggy doesn’t really know what else to say, so he doesn’t say a thing at all. Instead, he turns his head and presses his lips firmly into Matt’s hair.

It’s all it takes.

Matt shifts, and his face in buried into the curve of Foggy’s shoulder. His cane clatters to the soil with a soft, final thud, and his free hand grips the front of Foggy’s clothes almost desperately.

He doesn’t cry, like his tears have already run dry, but his breaths come in uneven and shattered gasps like a man who had run mile and just can’t find his breath. Like the weight on his chest blocks his airways, crushes his lungs.

“Thank you.” It’s a soft mutter against his collarbone, and Foggy curls his other arm around Matt’s back in an embrace. He draws him in and holds him there, his embrace safe and secure and tethering Matt to a reality he cannot find himself.

He whispers soft words of what he hopes is comfort into the crown of Matt’s head as his shoulders tremble and his eyelashes become damp. But he does not cry, and that hurts even more.

The wind dances around them like footsteps in the rain, there and gone and there again leaving naught but an echo. Foggy can feel the narrow shoulders against his hold, the long fingers attached to him like a life line, the firm figure of the man he loves, has come to love, has always loved, cocooned in his arms as he tries his best not to cry for his father.

In this moment, where Matt’s breaths are shudders and his glasses are tucked away in his pocket, they are both gathered in a frame of grey and contrast, adorned with ill-fitting flowers and a single dull rose which curls against the cold, withering in the embrace of the breeze.

In this moment, Foggy is not holding Daredevil. He cannot feel the many scars imprinted on his skin through the thick layers of his clothes. He is not holding Murdock, the suave, brilliant and confident attorney who can bring a jury to its knees before him. His cane knocked from the usually smooth grip of his fingers. In this moment, Foggy is holding his best friend and his lover, he is holding together the shattering pieces of Matt like ageing glue wearing at the edges, with hands scrambling to grasp all the parts with sharp edges that can cut, yet delicate enough to shatter irreversibly should he let go. He holds Matt together like one would spider-cracks on a mirror.

He holds Matt, whispers words in his soft hair, and prays those are not tears he feels soaking his collar.

In front of him, the insignificant looking marble gravestone is anything but.

*

Matt doesn’t come into work the next day, and the weight on Foggy’s chest gets heavier.

The long fingers of the clock tick by slowly, measuredly, as if the movement exhausts them. Foggy’s filing away and looking into cases that run through his head and across the finish line elsewhere. He can’t concentrate.

The thought of Matt alone today makes him uncomfortable. His suit feels tighter, uncomfortable against his skin and his fingers don’t want to cooperate, heavy on the keyboard. All he can think about is the dull, seemingly unimportant gravestone and his friend crumbling against him like a building with bricks worn too long and broken foundations.

He leaves work early, and Karen gives him a tight smile because she knows.

*

He wants to run to Matt’s apartment, where he knows he will be. Instead, he makes a detour to his place and the convenience store around the corner and picks up a few things.

He hopes he isn’t wrong.

*

The door to Matt’s apartment looks formidable in the shadows, tall dark and unyielding against Foggy’s fist. The resounding echo feels too loud, too blatant, too confronting.

They fill the empty corridor, and Foggy adjusts his hold on his laptop, fingers looping around the device to curl on the plastic straps of the see-through bag.

He’s still in his suit, but his tie is crooked and his jacket sleeves are folded messily to his elbows in his rush. One of his mismatched socks is crawling uncomfortably towards his ankle in the tight confines of his polished shoes. He doesn’t even bother considering the state of his hair.

When the door finally does open, after lingering sounds of shuffling on the other side, it creaks slowly in reflection of its age. It makes Foggy feel like he’s facing imminent doom, with what he’s brought with him. He mentally crosses his fingers and hope his lover doesn’t lock him out.

Matt is standing in the usually darkness of his room, alit with nothing more than the dimming light peaking from behind the curtains on the far wall. His eyes are not covered by crimson lenses, left instead raw, dark and unfathomable as they stare but do not see. There’s a painful vulnerability to the ash of his skin, the circles stretching beneath his eyelashes, the unusual unkempt mess of his hair.

He’s dressed in an old shirt, from their college days, and slacks and socks which seem to be the only thing keeping him warm. He doesn’t meet Foggy’s eyes, even though Foggy knows he can. In that moment, he’s staring at the terrible hurt of his hunched figure, the way his arms are limp by his sides, fingers unclenched as if in defeat. Like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, and it’s getting far too heavy to bear. Foggy is overwhelmed.

The desire to protect _the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen_ is so very real, and Matt doesn’t move an inch when Foggy surges forward and hugs him.

It’s not exactly like the moment among the graves. There, there was only the will to fight and live, covered in layers of limitations and boundaries and barriers. Here, they have been torn down almost violently, and there is only Matt, tired, defeated, _vulnerable_ , hurt. His best friend, emotions exposed raw like a nerve as he wraps his strong arms around Foggy’s neck and buries his head in the collar of his shirt.

“Oh Matty,” he says softly and feels a dampness in his eyes, “It’s okay.” He whispers, but it’s louder than the silence and for now, that’s enough.

He doesn’t let go of Matt for a while, letting tears of his friend soak the front of his shirt. It never gets easier.

Clumsily, they stumble to the living room. He sits Matt down on his own coach and takes his place beside him. Matt leans into him, his warmth a memory of all the sweet nights they shared together beneath covers, between sheets, in whispers and laughs and moans.

This is not the same.

“He’s still gone, Foggy,” it’s cracked and chipped at the edges, these words, “he’s still gone.”

“I know,” he replies, because he does, “I know Matt. God, I’m so sorry.”

Matt doesn’t say a thing more, as Foggy takes his laptop and balances it on his knees. He powers it on, freed arms rummaging through the plastic bag beside him to retrieve a tub of choc-mint ice-cream. Matt’s favourite.

He hands it to his friend, and Foggy can see intelligent eyes flickering, with tear tracks drying on his face and shining in the reflective illumination of the monitor. His lips are curled into an uncertain line, although Foggy can already see a lightness to them that hadn’t been there earlier. This is trust, he thinks.

He places a spoon in one of Matt’s cold palms and connects to his internet, password already saved. It takes a moment to boot up the video, but the sound of Matt popping the lid of the tub open almost cautiously makes his chest feel lighter, his suit for fitting, the pounding in his head fading. The other man leans against him, and Foggy can feel the shadow of a smile against his shoulder. There’s silence, for that while. Words have never really been needed between them.

He plugs in his earphones and hands one side to Matt who tucks it in his ear without question. Foggy does the same and hopes to hell he’s done the right thing.

The video loads, graphics low but the best he can find. As soon as Matt realises what it is, he tenses. His fingers curl tightly against the metal of the spoon, and his breath hitches in surprise.

Foggy knows this is the moment of truth, as the crowd in the video cheers, and the two boxers take their places in the ring.

Battlin’ Jack Murdock is facing on of his opponents, and he’s smiling at the camera and the crowd is going wild. This is one fight they will win together.

As soon as it starts to play, Foggy tries to calm his rapidly beating heart and digs his spoon into the ice-cream where Matt is still unmoving, hoping to dissolve the tension lingering the air with the sweet taste of chocolate and mint on his tongue. It tastes surprisingly bitter.

He knows Matt can sense his uncertainty, can practically hear it, but he doesn’t move. It takes only a moment, when the first punch is throne and the audience yells through the speakers, for Matt to place a kiss on the gentle curve of Foggy’s neck, down to his shoulder, where his head is leant.

“Thank you.” He says, in a soft, gratuitous voice that pulls at Foggy’s heartstrings and makes him smile.

The other man just turns to him, watching Matt practically absorb the audio. He can’t exactly see, but Foggy’s sure nothing’s ever been clearer.

*

The watch for hours, until the laptop dies and the internet becomes slow and lags because of how much they’ve used it. They stay, sitting together, side by side on the coach, until the screen is black and the sky outside has dimmed to reveal bright stars lingering.

They move to curl up on the coach, Matt lying against Foggy’s chest, arms wound together and legs entangled.

“I’m sorry about your dad, Matt.” He says with softness in his voice.

Matt buries his cheek into Foggy’s chest comfortably, “Thank you, Foggy.” He smiles. Foggy can hear the sleepiness in Matt’s smooth tone, the drawl at the end, the barely contained yawn. He wraps his arms a little tighter around the other man, feeling his hips, knees, ribs, shoulders against him. All firm muscle and slender. Comfortable, beautiful.

“I love you, Foggy.”

Those words mean more to him than Matt will ever now.

“Love you too, Matt.” He replies in the same, and watches as Matt closes his eyes. He can feel the flutter of his eyelashes, the strong beat of his heart against Foggy’s chest.

It’s reassuring. It’s glorious. It’s home.

He closes his own eyes, feeling the hands of sleep against his shoulders as he falls into darkness. Battlin’ Jack Murdock has passed, but Foggy will always be here for Matt. He thinks about the gravestone, the flower, the circles around his best friend’s eyes. The vulnerability, the hurt. They will get through this, as they always have.

That’s indisputable. 


End file.
